


In the name of Self-Defence

by amylaura



Series: In the Name of Self-Defence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A hint of backstory, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Power Exchange, One Shot, Oral Sex, PWP, Play Fighting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slash, Slight Breath Play, Sneak Attack, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amylaura/pseuds/amylaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a chase goes wrong, Sherlock has a unique idea to keep in from happening again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the name of Self-Defence

The last notes of the composition sang from the violin strings, their melancholy refrain echoing for a few moments in the stillness of the flat. John heard them fade away from his perch at the top of the stairs to his old bedroom. From a floor below, he could just make out the sounds of Sherlock tending his beloved instrument, loosening the strings of the bow and finally closing and latching the case lid. A predatory smile crept across John’s face as he heard his partner start to shuffle aimlessly across the sitting room. John moved silently to the top of the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards on the landing, his muscles tensing in anticipation of his next move.

Six months ago, an unexpected accomplice had snuck up behind Sherlock and John as they had raced through the alleyways of London chasing the suspects in a string of bank robberies. In the ensuing fight, John had been knocked unconscious and Sherlock had barely escaped serious injury from a stray gunshot. Three days later, after they had finally been discharged from hospital, Sherlock had proposed a course of action that he said would keep it from happening to them again.

“We were sloppy,” Sherlock had announced as they had lain in bed, wrapped around each other and savouring the feeling of being back in Baker Street. “We need to make sure we are better prepared in the future.”

“Hmm?” John asked blearily; sleep was starting to creep up on him. “How do you mean?” He ran his fingers up Sherlock’s back, teasing along the ridges of Sherlock’s spine. The weight of Sherlock’s leg as it draped across his stomach made John feel safe and anchored after the stress of the last few days.

“Graves caught us unaware. We can’t afford for that to happen again; the next time, we might not get so lucky.” John felt Sherlock’s lips ghost against his shoulder, above the old scar that had sent him home from Afghanistan. “So we need to practice defending ourselves against sneak attacks.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We attack each other when it’s least expected.”

John smiled sleepily. “You just want an excuse to jump me from behind, don’t you?” he asked, chuckling at the image of Sherlock leaping out of a dark corner.

“I’m serious, John. If I were to lose you…” Sherlock trailed off, clinging tightly to John for a few minutes. John murmured quietly to him, running both his hands soothingly up and down Sherlock’s back. He understood the feeling, of course he did. Every time Sherlock raced off down a dark alley after a suspect, a part of him feared that, by the time he caught up with Sherlock again, it would be too late to protect him.

So John had agreed that they should work on their self-defence skills. Naturally, Sherlock scoffed at John’s ideas of taking judo or boxing lessons. Sherlock wanted to focus on fending off surprise attacks and in his mind, the only way to do that was to be attacked without warning. Instead, he had proposed something that John still thought was a bit crazy; Sherlock believed that they should attack each other without warning to make sure they were always ready to defend themselves.

After some incredulous spluttering and much debate, John had finally been persuaded, with the provision that they adhered to some basic ground rules. Sherlock had balked at first, arguing that ground rules negated the whole purpose of the exercise, but John had stood firm. There were to be no attacks between 10 pm and 8 am when Mrs. Hudson was at home, since she wouldn’t be appreciative of being woken up by the sound of bodies being thrown around. There were also no weapons of any kind allowed at any point during the fight. After some debate, Sherlock had agreed and added a couple of provisos himself. He had asked that John not attack when he was occupied in his Mind Palace or playing his violin. John had readily agreed. He knew the time Sherlock spent in his Mind Palace was sacrosanct and he certainly didn’t have the funds to replace Sherlock’s prized violin should it be damaged during a scuffle.

During the first month or so, they had managed at least one of these ‘workouts’ a week, but as time had gone by and their lives had become busier, they’d been forced to cut back on them. A couple of long, involved cases had taken priority and John had picked up some extra shifts at the clinic here and there to cover as a flu bug had worked its way through the staff. As a result, it had been more than a month now since the last practice attack. But tonight, John was ready. Mrs. Hudson was off on a weekend visit with an old friend and John had a day off from the clinic tomorrow.

Sherlock was still moving about the sitting room as John started to creep down the steps. The main area of the flat was covered in shadows; Sherlock hadn’t bothered to turn on some lights to counteract the twilight that was descending over London. The sound of Sherlock entering the kitchen made John pause two steps from the bottom of the staircase. Holding his breath, John lingered in the dark stairwell, trying to figure out if Sherlock had caught onto his plan. He didn't think so; Sherlock's movements were as lackadaisical as they had been when he had been upstairs. John moved down a step, leaning against the right wall and just managed to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s reflection in the refrigerator door. He was standing at the kitchen table, staring down at something John couldn't quite make out. It obviously wasn't the violin, though, and that was all John cared about right now.

He took a hesitant step down onto the landing, holding his breath as the floorboards gave a small creak. He could still see Sherlock’s reflection, so he waited, balancing on his right foot while he waited to see if Sherlock would react. After a minute, it was apparent that Sherlock hadn’t registered the noise; his attention was focused on what looked like a newspaper he was reading. As Sherlock turned back towards the sitting room, John brought his left foot down onto the landing as quietly as possible, not daring to shift his weight in case the floorboards creaked again; fortunately, as he watched the fridge door, Sherlock kept moving back in the direction of the sofa, obviously absorbed in whatever he was reading.

An anticipatory smile crept across John’s face as he took a couple of deep breaths before making his move; a second later, his bare feet made no noise as he made his way through the kitchen door. Five steps took him through the small room. He paused again, this time just inside the glass doors that separated the two rooms; a quick glance into the sitting room showed that Sherlock was still headed towards the sofa; his head was still bowed over the paper, apparently still unaware of John’s actions. One more deep breath was all John allowed himself before taking the final two steps and launching himself at Sherlock’s back. Just before he made contact, however, Sherlock turned slightly, enough for John to catch him in the shoulder instead of the square of his back.

A faint exclamation that sounded like _“Wha...”_ escaped from Sherlock's lips as John slammed into his side, but his last-minute turn meant that the force of John’s leap was off-target, causing him to glance off Sherlock's back instead of making solid contact. John went stumbling towards the coffee table and in the three steps it took to regain control and swing back around to face Sherlock; the taller man dropped the newspaper onto the seat of his chair and turned to face John squarely, a huge smile spreading across those pale cheeks. John launched himself again, this time aiming for the middle of Sherlock’s chest. His shoulder made solid contact with Sherlock’s rib cage, sending a shiver of pain through the old gunshot wound and causing a whoosh from Sherlock as his breath was forced out of his lungs.

John felt Sherlock’s arms wrap around him and tried to lower his centre of gravity, but Sherlock was able to find just enough leverage to pick him up and throw him sideways, back towards the kitchen. John skittered across the floor, his bare feet struggling to find purchase on the polished wood floorboards. He finally regained his balance just before his momentum would have carried him through the doorway. John swung himself around, knees bent and legs tensed as he brought his body back to face Sherlock. For a minute, the two men just circled each other, slightly more than an arm's length apart. The only sounds in the flat were the shuffling of their feet on the wooden floorboards and their mingled heaving breaths.

It was Sherlock who decided to break the circle, lunging towards John with his arms raised at shoulder height. John just managed to duck under them just in time, scooting past him and into the sitting room. He couldn’t resist planting a kick in the middle of Sherlock’s arse as he moved to stand behind him. John laughed at the indignant squeak that escaped from his partner when his foot connected solidly with that plush behind. Sherlock dropped an arm, rubbing the spot and shooting a grumpy look at John as he whipped around to face him. They started circling each other again, and when John had his back to the kitchen, Sherlock attacked again. This time, the taller man aimed lower and caught John squarely, arms wrapping around his hips.

Sherlock's momentum carried them into the kitchen and John was slammed into the side of a cabinet. The glassware on the shelves rattled from the force of the impact. John froze, gasping as his breath was forced out of his chest. He felt Sherlock loosen his grip and a whisper of concern passed his lips. John smirked briefly and used Sherlock’s momentary lapse in concentration to mount a counterattack. He managed to squeeze his arms beneath Sherlock’s loosened hold and break his grip with a quick jerk upwards. John was quick to wrap his own arms around Sherlock’s waist before using the cabinet behind him as leverage to push the both of them back into the sitting room. As they stumbled away from the cabinet, John lifted as hard as he could; a triumphant smile spread across his face as he felt Sherlock’s feet leave the floor.

But just as he was about to tackle Sherlock to the floor, he felt the lithe body twist unexpectedly in his arms. Before he knew what was happening, his arms were empty and Sherlock was standing behind him. John had just started to swing around to face him when arms closed around his shoulders once again. He was pulled up off the floor and this time, he was tossed to his left. His breath was forced out of him for real this time as his stomach slammed painfully into back ridge of his chair. While he lay over the chair gasping and trying to get sufficient air back into his lungs, Sherlock's arms moved to circle his waist and a moment later, he was lifted back into the air, held tightly against Sherlock’s chest. John could feel hot breath against the back of his neck as they stood still in the middle of the sitting room, their combined heavy breathing loud in the otherwise silent flat. He tried to wiggle, but between the pain in his chest and the tight grip Sherlock had on him, he wasn’t able to make any significant moves for freedom. A minute later, once John's breathing had slowed down a bit, he felt Sherlock’s lips twist into a smirk against his neck. That was all the warning he got before his legs were caught between Sherlock’s and he felt himself being pushed forward towards the floor. He managed to bring his arms up just in time to break his fall, but before he could do anything else, he was trapped beneath the weight of Sherlock’s chest.

A grin broke out over his face as an idea flashed into his mind. He let his forearms collapse with a groan, faking injury once more. Sherlock’s arms loosened slightly and John heard his breath catch in alarm yet again. He bucked hard, forcing Sherlock’s weight up off his back. Using his forearms, he started crawling forwards, hoping to get far enough away from Sherlock so he could have the space to stand up. Unfortunately, he had only managed a couple of feet of progress when Sherlock’s hands grabbed his waist and yanked him backwards. A second later, a sharp knee hit the centre of his back with enough force to send his hips crashing into the floor. John’s arms really did collapse this time and he smacked his nose into the floorboards. His grunt of pain was met only with a wry chuckle; no doubt Sherlock thought he deserved it after all his trickery. While John lay on the floor panting and trying to get his wits together, the knee eased off the small of his back. But before he could react, it moved between his legs, shoving his thighs apart and coming to press firmly against his groin. John thought he might have a chance to get away then, but before he could do more than wiggle a bit, one of Sherlock’s hands pushed his shoulders firmly against the floor and the other hand wrapped itself firmly around the back of his neck.

John felt Sherlock’s warm breath against the rim of his ear just before he asked _“Do you yield?”_ in that silken purr that John had become so familiar with over the last year. It was pure sex and John felt shivers run down his spine in response. He bit back a moan as Sherlock’s tongue flicked at the sensitive skin underneath his earlobe. John just grunted, refusing to answer the question. There was no way he was going to give in that easily. Gathering his upper body strength, he pushed up off the floor quickly and whipped his head backwards. The back of his head connected squarely with the side of Sherlock’s face, causing the other man to lose his grip on John’s neck. John pushed his torso up off the floor, using what leverage he could gather to force Sherlock’s weight off his back. Once he was free, John began crawling again, arms and legs straining as he fought to pull his body free from Sherlock’s hold.

Just as he thought escape was possible, a cry escaped his lips as he felt those hands grab firmly on each side of his waist before once more yanking him backwards. He slid across the floorboards, friction heating the skin of his knees and forearms. He struggled as much as he could, but the slippery material of his track bottoms meant he couldn’t find any sort of traction with his knees. Sherlock’s knee slammed into his arse with enough force to push his groin into the floorboards. Sherlock's right hand returned to the back of his neck where those long, musician's fingers curved around to the front. Slight pressure on his windpipe made him stop wiggling. Sherlock didn’t use enough pressure to cut off his air supply; it was all about proving which one of them had won their skirmish. Those agile fingers stroked his neck lightly, sending shivers up and down John’s spine. There was more than a hint of strength in that grip; he also knew that Sherlock wasn't going to hurt him. This was all part of their game.

"I said," Sherlock asked again, his breath brushing John’s ear, "Do. You. Yield?" Each word was paired with a slight tightening of the fingers on his neck and a nudge from the knee on his backside. John pushed up against Sherlock, not making a real effort to get free. He was just making it clear that he didn't really consider himself beaten before letting his body sag to the floor with a slight nod. The grip on his neck tightened.

"I didn’t hear you," Sherlock purred in his ear, tightening his grip once more. John felt heat run through his veins as Sherlock’s tongue traced the edge of his ear. There was movement behind him, but with Sherlock holding onto his neck, John didn't have a clue what was going on. Deciding to be stubborn, he refused to answer, only shaking his head as much as the grip on his neck would allow. Sherlock chuckled darkly and a moment later, John felt Sherlock's free hand snake between his spread legs. He couldn’t quite contain his moan as he felt those long fingers skim over his balls briefly before moving forward to stroke along his already mostly-hard cock. A few deft strokes left him straining against the confines of his clothes. John groaned, resting his forehead against the wood and pushing his hips up slightly to give Sherlock a little more room. Sherlock’s rich chuckle rumbled from behind him as those fingers gave a few more strokes, each one growing slightly firmer than the last. Suddenly, after a particularly firm stroke, Sherlock’s fingers dropped away. John couldn't contain the whine that escaped his lips as those fingers trailed back along his groin. They ghosted lightly over his bollocks once more before firmly stroking along the crack of his arse. The fingers twisted slightly, seeking and pressing against his anus, teasing the opening firmly through the two layers of clothing. The whine changed to a whimper when after only a few seconds, the fingers dropped completely away from his body.

"Will you say it?" Sherlock purred again, this time accompanied by the slick of his tongue against the nape of his neck. John whimpered as the tongue lapped at the hollow just beneath his left ear; Sherlock knew through very extensive experimentation that this was one of John's most erogenous zones. His cock throbbed and grew even harder; with a moan, John tried to rut against the floor, hoping for just a bit more friction. But Sherlock grabbed his waist again, managing to hold him just far enough above the ground that it was hopeless. His hips gave a few weak, useless thrusts before giving up. He whimpered, head hanging down, the blood pounding through his veins, carrying his arousal pulsing through his body.

"If you don't say it..." Sherlock purred, his voice carrying a hint of a threat, "you won't get what you want." John knew that Sherlock absolutely meant it; in one of their early battles, he had refused to admit his defeat. As punishment, Sherlock had spent the next two hours teasing John mercilessly, keeping him right at the edge but never letting him go over it. The only memory John had of the rest of that night was that his orgasm had been an almost painful experience, once Sherlock had finally allowed him to come.

"I yield," John finally whispered, knowing it was the only way to give them what they both wanted. As soon as the words passed his lips, the hands on his hips shifted and John was deftly flipped over. He landed squarely on his back with a thump and his eyes jumped up to Sherlock’s face. John shivered as he saw the faint flush that stained the pale cheeks and the lust burning in his eyes. John’s hands came up off the floor, skimming up over Sherlock’s wrists to clasp his forearms, fingers caressing the slivers of skin he could reach under the cuffs of his shirt. As he relished the feel of Sherlock’s skin sliding under his fingers, Sherlock shifted slightly above him, bringing his knee to push up against his groin again. John tried to grind against it, but the angle wasn't quite right and after a minute, he gave up. Sherlock smirked slightly, clearly amused by John’s futile attempts. Suddenly Sherlock’s arms shifted and moments later, John found his wrists captured and pulled above his head. The tips of his fingers touched the wooden leg of the coffee table. Sherlock smile turned almost predatory before he twisted John’s wrists and wrapped his fingers around the curved post.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go,” Sherlock instructed in that sinful purr. John mewled in response, his hips shifting restlessly against the floorboards. Sherlock just chuckled before sitting back on his heels and watching John’s struggles for a minute. A groan escaped from his lips as he watched Sherlock stare down at him, obviously planning his attack. A second later, John’s shirt was wrenched up over his chest and head. Sherlock left it tangled around his arms, another reminder that he wasn't to move his arms.

The wood floor was cold against John’s back, making him arch his back a little. Sherlock chuckled darkly, seeming to take his restless motions as an invitation. His moans turned into a shout as Sherlock's tongue made contact with one of his nipples. Sherlock loved doing this and had spent hours in the past year slowly driving John out of his mind as he did nothing but lick John’s chest. John jerked when, after the first few licks, the tongue was replaced by teeth. Sherlock’s bite wasn’t hard enough to break the skin, but the sharp nip sent heat directly to John’s cock. Sherlock tugged slightly at the taught nub, making the skin sting and ache. A moment later, Sherlock let go and John whimpered loudly as his abused flesh throbbed in protest. Sherlock’s tongue returned, soothing the protesting nub and making John’s hips squirm even more.

Lost in the haze of his need, John failed to notice that Sherlock had moved while his tongue was busy tormenting his nipple. The fog cleared slightly, however, when a strong yank at his waistband pulled both his track bottoms and pants completely off. The cold air of the flat shocked his overheated skin, wringing yet another moan from his lips. Sherlock’s hands returned a moment later, grabbing his thighs and pulling his legs even further apart. He groaned at the sight of Sherlock's tongue flicking over his lips. He looked like a starving man staring at a full buffet table. Before the groan had completely left his lips, Sherlock moved yet again and his hot mouth was suddenly hovering over the tip of John’s leaking cock. Sherlock paused there, letting his hot breath wash over the length of John's hot length. He tried bucking his hips in a futile attempt to close the gap, but Sherlock just chuckled and used one of his hands to hold John’s hips firmly against the floor.

He moaned, close to begging for Sherlock's touch. It felt like minutes passed before Sherlock’s head finally lowered those final inches. John groaned in relief as his tongue circle the head of his cock, gathering the precome that had started to leak out of the tip. Sherlock took his sweet time lapping at the head of John's cock, obviously savouring his growing frustration. John tried a couple more times to buck his hips to push more of his cock inside Sherlock’s mouth, but after a few attempts, Sherlock gave his hip a sharp pinch. John relented with a pleading whimper, letting his hips fall back to the floor.

Sherlock rewarded him by giving his cock a nice, long lick along its length. John moaned at the feel of it. Sherlock gave him another lick, from the tip of his cock all the way down to the base. John thought he would go back up to the tip, but Sherlock surprised him yet again by continuing down to his balls. John groaned yet again as that talented tongue lapped at one then the other. At the same time, John felt the tip of one of Sherlock’s fingers start to rub tight circles around his anus. He wondered for a second when Sherlock had gotten the lube out, but the thought was chased out of his head as the finger started to press inside.

The flick of Sherlock’s tongue on his bollocks made John’s back arch. Sherlock took advantage of John’s squirming and pushed his finger further into John. He kept licking at John’s balls while he steadily worked his finger in and out of his arse. It didn’t take Sherlock long before he had two fingers buried all the way inside him, his fingertips deliberately rubbing against John’s prostate. His cock was painfully hard and leaking precome like crazy. Sherlock shifted a little, swiping a long lick up John’s cock as he did so.

“Sherlock, please,” John got out, struggling to put words into a sensible order. “Please…”

“You need to tell me what you want,” Sherlock replied, his hot breath teasing against John’s overheated flesh.

“Please,” he started again. “Please, Sherlock….”

“You need to be specific…” came that teasing voice, in the tone that made all the bones in Jon’s body melt.

“PLEASE FUCK ME!” he shouted, the words bursting out from his mouth and echoing around the room. His cheeks coloured at his own desperation; it was a good thing that Mrs. Hudson was out. Those kind of outbursts usually brought half-hearted glares and teasing mutterings about the thin walls the next time she saw him. Above him, Sherlock’s face cracked into what only could be described as a triumphant smile. He was obviously pleased to have him begging this quickly.

Sherlock shifted slightly, taking a second to carefully pull his fingers out of John’s arse. John felt his muscles flutter, feeling empty as he heard the lid of the lube click open. He watched as Sherlock took a minute to slick lube on himself, his pale eyes closing at the feel of his hand stroking the hard length of his cock. Once he was done, Sherlock moved quickly, his arms hitching under John’s knees and pushing them up close to his chest. John moaned as Sherlock leaned over him, tempted to bring his hands down so he could touch Sherlock. But that was a bad idea; Sherlock just might stop if he disregarded his instructions. A second later, he groaned and arched his back as the tip of Sherlock's cock breached him. He paused once the head was fully inserted and held still for a moment; John attempted to draw more of him inside, but Sherlock managed to hold himself steady.

Finally, when John's patience had almost completely deserted him and he had begun begging disjointedly, he felt Sherlock pull back slightly. He whined in protest as Sherlock stopped once more, just the very tip of his cock still inside him. John was practically crying in his frustration. But a second later, Sherlock slammed his whole length into John, turning his frustration into elation. Sherlock set a punishing pace, the force of his thrusts causing John to slide slightly on the floor towards the coffee table. It didn't take too long before both of them were just clinging onto the edges of their orgasms. Sherlock was pounding into him furiously, arms still hitched under his knees. John was right at the edge, keening and begging under the onslaught.

Suddenly, one of Sherlock's arms let go of his leg. Before he could wonder what was going on though, Sherlock shifted positions slightly and his free hand moved downwards and closed around John's weeping cock. It only took a few strokes to send John over the edge. His free leg wrapped around Sherlock's waist as he started to come. He could feel the wet spurts of come hitting his stomach as Sherlock milked him through his orgasm. Just as he was finishing, Sherlock picked up his pace, his hips slamming into John. A few violent thrusts were enough and seconds later, John felt Sherlock's own orgasm begin. He could feel the pulse of cock in his arse, the warm wetness of his come starting to drop from his ass and onto the floor.

A minute later, once he was completely spent, Sherlock collapsed onto the floor next to John, his head coming to rest on John's chest. They laid there in the silence of 221B, listening to the sounds of their racing hearts calming down. Once their breathing had returned to normal, Sherlock leaned up and pulled John's wrists off the table leg, gently massaging the stiff joints. John managed to use his t-shirt to clean up the mess on his stomach before tossing it aside and wrapping his arms around the slender body laying half on top of him. He hummed happily as Sherlock practically purred as his fingertips lightly stroked along his spine.

The floor was cold and hard and they would have to move before too long. But for right now, John was content to lay here with his lover in his arms. He might have lost the skirmish tonight, but he really couldn't complain. It felt like they had both won in the end, and that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing slash - so I hope it's OK! My inspiration for this story comes from the old Pink Panther movies (the ones with Peter Sellers, not the abominations with Steve Martin). In them, Clouseau has a man-servant named Cato who attacks him without warning. It's usually at a most inopportune time, like when Clouseau is in the bath or in bed with a woman. A lot of them are on Youtube if you care to look. (Keep in mind, they are from the 60s and 70s, so the portrayal of the Asian Cato is pretty stereotype-heavy.) If you haven't seen any of these movies, I highly recommend them, especially A Shot in the Dark.
> 
> I have a couple of tumblrs - http://amylaurawrites.tumblr.com/ is for my writing and http://amylaura76.tumblr.com/ is my general fandom one.


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